


close range, closer still

by rowenabane



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), CEO!Kun, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mercenaries, Minor Violence, Sharing a Bed, Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27358762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenabane/pseuds/rowenabane
Summary: “You killed someone.”Ten blinks open a single eye. “I killed someone to protect you. It evens out, doesn’t it?”
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun
Comments: 17
Kudos: 252
Collections: NCT Bigbang Round 1, 🌫





	close range, closer still

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing for a big bang fic fest, and I just want to thank [any](https://twitter.com/johntographique) for her amazing art, attitude, and input! (i love u homie MWAH) 
> 
> check out the accompanying art [here!](https://twitter.com/johntographique/status/1328151692936765440?s=20) enjoy! thanks so much for reading!

Kun wears his only black suit to his father’s funeral. 

He wears the same suit a week later when he is named the CEO of Vision Tech Industries, the company his father built from the ground up with his bare hands. He wears the suit when he is interviewed about how it feels to walk in his father’s footsteps. He wears the suit when he goes to lay flowers on his father’s grave, arranging yellow roses at his headstone as he remembers how much his father hated flowers.

He moves to the city not long after that. The suit is lost somewhere in the transition, but Kun does not bother to find where it went.

…

So what does a man do when he is handed his father’s legacy? What does he do when he knows nothing about this world of business, of steel skyscrapers and glass?

Kun’s father only taught him one thing: that no one in this world wouldn’t eventually hurt him. The bitterness would come later when Kun was old enough to learn that this was the wrong thing a father should say to his son. It is the wrong thing for any parent to say, even if it is true.

 _The world despises those with power,_ his father had said. _They will do anything to take it from you._

Kun did not want power, never cared for control as his father did. This never changed, not as he grew older, not as he watched his father turn into an angry wisp of the man he was before. The lesson remained, though, no matter how hard Kun tried to forget it.

He sits in his father’s office for the first time and stares at the world outside. The letters on the door read ‘Qian, CEO’, but even though the label has his name, he is the wrong Qian for the job. The floor to ceiling glass windows let in light, but there is an ever-present blue shadow that fills the room, big and empty. He feels so small watching the city outside, everything so tiny and fragile on the street below. The building towers over everything, a monument made of glass meant to keep the world at a distance.

Looking down from the high castle. Kun sits at the empty desk and stares at the sky, wishing he was somewhere else.

…

“Kun!” Taeil says, pushing the office door open. Kun looks up from some papers, the small print bleeding together in his tired vision. “What’s up?”

“Trying to make sense of some of this...stuff,” Kun puts the papers into a neat pile. “How about you?”

“I was just talking with some of the shareholders,” Taeil replies. “They want to know what your plans are for the direction of the company.”

Kun glances out those wide windows, sighing. “I don’t have any plans. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Taeil says cheerily, picking up the paper Kun just set down. He scans it quickly, nodding. “Outputs look good.”

Kun doesn’t know what to say. He studied engineering, not business, and while he may be CEO Taeil knows much more about the company than he ever could. He’s been working here ever since he graduated, and even though he is only a couple of years older than Kun, he holds himself with an authority that Kun never could.

“I have no idea what any of that stuff means,” Kun admits. “I just sign things the secretary tells me to.”

Taeil grabs another paper off of the pile. “Did you know she resigned today? HR is looking to hire someone else.”

Kun frowns. “Why did she resign?”

“She and her husband are moving out of the city. They seem like nice people.”

Kun thinks briefly of the middle-aged woman who smiled at him every morning, hair perfectly done, nails brightly painted. He doesn’t know if he should miss her, but he will.

“Do you have any preference for who takes her place?”

Kun watches Taeil leaf through the papers on the pile. “Not really.”

“Alright.” Taeil picks up several papers. “Do you mind if I take these?”

All the documents look the same to Kun: dense legal jargon, charts, and figures he has no reference for. “Sure.”

“HR might get in contact with you later,” Taeil continues, taking half the stack. “Also, Mr. Kim wants to talk to you. He’s been bugging me all week to tell you.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Kim? You know him, he’s the oldest shareholder. He knew your father.”

The name doesn’t call to mind any semblance of a familiar face, just a blank man in a suit, a phone number in his father’s contact list, but Kun nods anyway. “Oh, yeah. I’ll call him. Thanks.”

Taeil smiles again. “Don’t worry. You’re doing great.”

Kun watches him walk out of the office and wishes that Taeil’s words were true.

…

The new secretary arrives the next week, a man in a button-up shirt with dark hair and gold studded along his ears. He gives Kun a winning smile as he goes to shake his hand.

“I’m Ten.” His eyes glitter like the night sky. “I'm the new secretary.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kun says, Ten’s hand rough against his. He has an odd number of calluses for someone who works an office job, but Kun simply shrugs the disparity away. Maybe he has a hobby, one where he uses his hands often. It is no big deal, certainly not to Kun. He is floundering enough without wondering about the origin of his secretary. 

Ten smiles back, sunlight beaming through the windows. It catches in the gold embedded in his ears, and for a second Kun thinks he sees a star falling in Ten’s eyes.

…

Things are fine for the first few weeks—Ten is attentive, competent. He explains things to Kun, listens in on meetings to provide insight. He seems to have a much higher skill set than Kun would expect, but he doesn't know what he would do without him.

Taeil comes by and he pauses when he sees Ten, something mistrusting in his eyes. Ten simply smiles and waves like a puppet, returning to his computer.

“Do you trust him?” Taeil asks once he has closed Kun’s door behind him.

“Of course I do,” Kun says, looking over a chart. “Why do you ask?”

“Something about him just doesn't sit right with me,” Taeil says. “I just don't know what it is.”

…

Kun will admit it: his new secretary is...strange.

Kun pauses his typing, ears straining. There’s a dull thud just on the other side of the wall.

 _Maybe Ten dropped something,_ he thinks, turning back to his computer. He hears another thud and this time he stands, placing his ear against the wall. The only thing he hears from the other side is silence.

He opens the door a fraction and sees Ten sitting at his desk, typing away. He sees Kun and gives him a warm smile. “Did you need me for something?”

“Um, no,” Kun says, looking around the room. Everything seems in order. “I thought I heard something.”

“Like what?” Ten says, stapling some papers together. He seems cheerful, but there is something carefully constructed about his movements, about the way he holds himself and speaks. Kun runs a hand through his hair, sighing.

“I must have been imagining things,” he says. “Sorry for bothering you.”

Ten smiles. “No problem.”

Kun closes the door behind him and stares at his empty office, the huge window somehow making the room feel small. Kun sits at his desk and stares at his computer screen.

There’s a thud from the other side of the wall.

…

The strangeness doesn't quite stop there. 

Ten begins to arrive late, leave early. Kun asks him if something is wrong, or if he needs time off. He gives similar excuses: traffic was bad, I have a doctor’s appointment, an urgent family matter. Kun doesn't push for answers, but Taeil’s words nag at him.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” Ten says one morning, his polished shoes squeaking. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Something dark catches Kun’s eye.

“What's that?” he asks, pointing out a dark red blob on Ten’s collar. Ten rubs at it, frowning slightly.

“Nothing,” he says, pulling on his jacket. He gives Kun a megawatt smile that does little to put his mind at ease. “Don’t worry about it.”

Kun doesn’t ask, even as he sees similar stains dotting the hem of his jacket. Dark red, almost brown.

Kun watches Ten answer the phone with charm and grace, and retreats into his office.

...

There’s someone following him through the parking garage. 

Kun doesn't notice at first, attention focused on scrolling through his phone as he walks to his car. He slowly becomes aware of another set of footsteps, a shadow that is not shaped like the other shadows. He stops, standing in the middle of the parking garage. The fluorescent lights overhead coat everything in a sickly, surreal glow.

Kun whips around and comes face to face with Ten, who stares at him with wide eyes. He almost seems surprised that Kun was able to notice him.

“Oh, Ten!” Kun slides his phone into his pocket and notices Ten’s shoulders shift back, relaxing. He’s not wearing his usual work attire—his dressy suit jacket and shirt have been replaced with a thin black tee and a leather jacket. “What are you doing here?”

Ten takes a moment to respond and at that moment Kun sees his face shift from surprise to something more calm and determined, almost calculating. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he slowly pulls one hand out, a pair of keys dangling from his palm.

“You left these on your desk,” Ten says calmly, smiling. The expression he had just nanoseconds before is wiped from his face, leaving Kun to wonder if he just imagined it. “I thought you might want them.”

Kun pats his own pockets, looking for his car key. “Wow, that was stupid,” Kun mumbles to himself. Ten grins as he drops the key into his hand, the metal cold. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Ten says, putting his hands back in his pockets. “Good night.”

“Good night!” Kun calls out, watching Ten walk away. He looks at the key in his hand and frowns, feeling a lump in his pocket.

He closes his fingers around the key in his pocket and pulls it out, blood going cold. He stands there for a second, mouth open, wondering if he should chase Ten and ask him _where_ he got these keys, exactly _when_ he found them. Kun holds both sets of keys up to the fluorescent lighting, forehead creased.

There's one thing he knows for sure: he only has one set of car keys.

…

“Ten, where did you find those keys you gave me last night?”

Ten looks up at him, fingers stilling on his keyboard. He’s wearing a dark suit jacket threaded with shimmering silver strands that glitter every time he moves. The effect is subtle but dazzling, and if Kun didn't have one thought in his mind he would have easily swayed like a moth to a flame.

“I found them on your desk.” Ten folds his hands together. “Aren’t they yours?”

Kun pulls both keys out of his pocket and holds them up in front of him. “I only have one key for my car. I don’t have a spare.”

Kun had run through all the possibilities in his head: maybe they weren’t his, maybe Ten had just made an innocent but strange mistake. The keys still opened his car, though—leaving Kun with a single question crawling through his mind.

Where did Ten get a replica of his car keys? And _why_ was he following Kun in a parking garage in the middle of the night?

Ten stares at him for a moment, his gaze becoming blank. Blank, not empty—blank like a screen put up to hide the truth, blank like something is lurking behind. “Well, that sure is strange.”

Ten stands and reaches into his jacket, face a canvas waiting to be painted over. He is unreadable in every shape of the word.

“Step aside,” Ten says, pulling a long knife out of his jacket. Kun’s eyes widen and he steps back, shock lodging itself in his lungs.

“Are you going to kill me? Oh my god, wait, I—”

Ten sighs exasperatedly. “Step aside, Kun.”

The knife whizzes over his shoulder, and Kun hears a soft grunt behind him. He turns to see a masked man fall to the ground with a thud, Ten’s knife protruding from his forehead.

They stare at each other for a second, Kun delicately trying to navigate the correct response to seeing your secretary kill a man right outside your office.

“Who the hell is that?” Kun yells, watching Ten grab the body and drag it to the elevator. “Who the hell are you?”

“You should be thanking me,” Ten grunts. “I just saved your life.”

“I would like to know why you are dragging a dead body around my building like it's a sack of potatoes!”

“I’m sorry,” Ten quips. “Would you like me to leave it in your office instead?”

“No!”

Ten drops the man for a second, pulling his knife out of his forehead. Kun watches him wipe the blade on his pants with a growing queasiness. 

“You’ve got to get out of here,” Ten says, sliding the blade into his jacket again. “He’s not the only one.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you explain what's going on!”

Ten opens his mouth to say something, but the elevator suddenly dings, doors sliding open. The person on the other side is a man dressed head to toe in black, a long gun braced in his hands. There is an almost militaristic rigidity to the way he holds himself, and as Kun watches, the man swings the gun upwards and opens fire. The windows behind him shatter as bullets cut through them like paper.

“Get down!” Ten yells, grabbing the man’s gun and kneeing him in the stomach. Kun ducks behind the desk and hears swearing and gunfire, both in a voice he recognizes and one he does not.

The gunfire stops and Ten walks towards the glassless window, peeling off his suit jacket. He unbuttons his dress shirt to reveal a black shirt beneath. A gun is strapped to his side. 

Kun stands up, trying to push down the wave of nausea he feels as he sees Ten check the gun. “May I ask _what_ is going on?”

“You have become a very popular figure with the hitman crowd,” Ten says smoothly. “That one works with a group. You can tell from the small red band on his mask.”

As if on cue, gunshots echo from the lower floor. Kun feels his blood run cold. “Oh my god, the employees—”

“It's around noon. Most of them are on lunch breaks.” Ten pulls something from around his waist, long like a cord. “Either way, I scheduled a routine fire drill just in case they were still here.”

“Why didn't I know?” Kun asks indignantly, irritated by the way Ten ignores him.

Ten gives him an ice-cold glare and a sly smile. “How would you have handled it, Qian Kun?”

The fact is Kun does not know how to handle a crisis very well. He hates to admit it, especially to the man with blood on his trousers and a gun in his gloved hand.

More gunshots. Ten looks out the window, the wind whipping through the room. They are incredibly high up, and the cold gusts of air cause papers to fly throughout the room. Some are sucked out through the gaping holes where the windows were before, fluttering downwards to the street.

“How much do you trust me?” Ten asks, eyes glittering with a madness that Kun does not understand. His mouth is set in a thin, focused line.

“I don’t!” Kun yells, voice lost in the sudden wind rushing through the broken windows.

“Good,” Ten replies, grabbing his hand and launching him towards the open window, Kun lets out a cry of surprise as he stumbles towards the broken glass, feet slipping into nothingness. He teeters on the edge of the window, trying to regain his footing, too afraid to look at the ground below.

Ten clips something to his own belt and then runs towards him, hooking an arm around his waist and clipping something to his belt. He pulls both of them out of the window and they tip over the edge, falling back towards the ground. 

Bullets rain through the room where they were before, breaking the remaining windows. Glass falls in large panes around them, and Kun raises his hands to cover his eyes.

They jerk to a stop, the line connected to his belt stopping them in midair. Ten deftly pulls the line and it separates into two cords, one connected to him and one to Kun.

“Have you ever rappelled before?” Ten asks, the wind blowing his hair in every direction across his face. Kun shakes his head, heart in his throat. 

“Hands on the cord,” Ten instructs. Gunfire still rattles from above. Ten clamps something to the wire. “This is a release. You fall a little and stop. Just do what I do, okay?”

“What the hell? How am I supposed to—”

Gunshots echo around them, and when Kun looks up, he can see men in black with their guns pointed down the side of the building. His blood runs cold.

“You're a smart man!” Ten yells. “You’ll figure it out!” 

Kun hesitates and Ten lets out a frustrated huff. He pulls the release and Kun feels himself fall, wind biting the tips of his ears. 

Falling. His hands fumble and his body warns that _hey! The ground is hundreds of feet away!_ He grabs the clamp and presses on it, jerking to a stop. He looks above him and sees Ten several hundred yards away, a gun in his hand. He watches him run sideways along the side of the building, held by a single wire. He shoots upwards, and Kun sees one of the masked men plummet over the edge of the building.

There is a whizzing sound and suddenly Ten is right beside him, feet planted on the silvery glass windows. “Why did you stop? Keep going!”

Ten does it easily—he drops down the line like a spider, black against silver. Kun falls with significantly less grace, feet catching in the raised edges of windows.

Fall. Stop. Fall. Stop.

Ten is several feet beneath him, looking up and frowning. He opens his mouth to say something, but it is lost in the sudden staccato of gunfire, the window in front of him shattering outwards into his face. The wire snaps and Kun can almost imagine himself suspended in midair before he starts his terrified freefall towards the pavement below. He screams wildly, winding buffering his fall.

Something grabs his wrist, and Kun blinks one eye open to see Ten holding onto him, his face scrunched with effort. Kun’s skin stings from a thousand minor cuts and he hears Ten grunt as he attempts to pull him upward.

“You’re really fucking heavy,” Ten pants. Gunfire continues from some unseen part of the building and Kun can see sweat beading his forehead. “Feet forward. Hold onto my hand.”

Kun does as he's told and Ten swings his arm back, breathing heavily. He bounces off the window beneath his feet and on the rebound smashes right through it with his boots, glass flying around them like diamonds. They both roll inward, Ten much more gracefully than Kun.

Ten releases the line and it zips out of the window. Glass covers the floor like a diamond carpet, and Kun gingerly pulls a piece out of his palm. It leaves a bleeding indent that burns when Kun touches it. 

“Stairs. Now.” Ten rushes forward, crouching at the door. He pushes it open, looking into the hallway. “Coast is clear.”

Kun follows Ten towards the staircase, both of them running in stops and starts. They pass a door and Ten ducks beneath the window before peering in. “Keep going, I’ll—”

Another door swings open, revealing a masked man with a gun. He levels the barrel at Kun’s head and Ten kicks him in the jaw, the gun flying out of his hands. Ten hefts it into his arms, looking at Kun as if he is a troublesome child that cannot follow instructions. Kun would almost have to agree. 

“Keep going,” Ten hisses. 

The door to the stairwell is slightly ajar, and Ten pushes it open with the barrel of his gun. He takes the stairs down two at a time, Kun tumbling ungracefully behind him. Kun can feel his knees burning after the first couple flights of stairs, but he doesn't stop or pause—he follows Ten unwaveringly, loyally, the only solid thing he knows to trust.

They push open the door at the bottom of the stairwell and sunlight floods in, so bright that Kun has to blink. Ten grabs his shoulder and pushes him to the side of the building. A car is parked in the shadows, black and nondescript. There isn’t even a license plate.

Ten curses as he throws the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat. The car rumbles to life like a living creature, snarling and fierce. Kun gets into the passenger seat and slams the door behind him, watching Ten’s hands curl on the wheel. He seems annoyed.

“My place,” he says blankly. “They’ll be watching yours.”

“Who?” Kun asks, looking out the back window as Ten pulls into traffic. Vans and police cars are converging on the building, officers beginning to surround the entrances and exits. “What’s going on?”

Ten doesn’t answer. He moves hurriedly but stiffly, as if he is in a great deal of pain that he is trying to ignore. 

“Are you hurt?” Kun asks. Car tires screech against the pavement.

Ten’s expression doesn't change. “I pulled a muscle catching your stupid ass. Any other questions?”

Kun knows quite logically that Ten’s statement is rhetorical and there is nothing in the world he would like less than to have Kun ask more questions, but he can't help himself. “Where are you taking me? We should be going to the police.”

“For a smart man, you sure are stupid,” Ten replies, eyes fixed on the road. “As of now, we are off the grid. You, Qian Kun, are a man in the shadows.” He looks over at Kun. “There’s a million-dollar bounty on your head. A lot of people would like nothing more than to collect that money.”

Kun reels from the information, unsure of how to respond. A bounty? His brain tries to wrap itself around the idea that he’s done something that would make anyone want him dead. He twists in his seat and sees nothing but cars behind him, the Vision Tech building falling away from view. He hears sirens in the distance, piercing through the low rumble of traffic. Ten takes a deep, calm breath.

Kun looks over at him, his dark shirt and the harness still attached to his chest, and thinks about how just this morning Ten was sitting in his office reading him reports. He had been buttoned up, normal, a picture of professionalism. Now Kun finds himself looking at Ten through a different, darker lense—he is sitting in a car with a man who has just killed other men, and he does not know where he is taking him. 

Somewhere in his head, Kun thinks of the only lesson his father ever truly taught him: _The world despises those with power._

Ten keeps driving, eyes dark and unreadable, Kun sitting in the passenger seat like a prisoner.

…

The crooked letters on the sign in front of the motel read NO VACANCY, the glowing Y at the end blinking in and out of existence. Kun waits with bated breath as Ten pulls into a parking spot at the far end of the motel, the area partially obscured by shadows. The sun is still high in the sky and this small area of shadow, this little plot of darkness, makes Kun uneasy.

Ten gets out of the car, eyes surveying the almost empty parking lot. “Get out.”

Kun does as he's told, watching Ten pull a pair of keys out of his pocket and walk up the stairs on the side of the building. He stops at a door right in the corner, the curtains drawn. He opens the door and stands to the side, gently nudging Kun inside.

 _He’s going to kill you_ , Kun’s brain chants helpfully. _He’s going to kill you!_

Ten closes the door. “Relax, I’m not going to kill you.”

Kun spins around, fists raised. “You better not try! I know judo!”

It is not a _complete_ lie: he did take judo in middle school for exactly one week before he broke his arm and his father pulled him out of it. Ten raises an eyebrow, amused.

“If you knew judo you wouldn’t be standing like that,” he says, going to the window and peeking between the curtains. “Your stance is wrong.”

Kun lowers his fists slowly and looks around the room at the dingy, peeling wallpaper and grimy air conditioning unit. The closet is open and full of clothing of various kinds—suits and suit jackets, puffy coats, belts hanging from coat hangers. Several pairs of shoes line the bottom of the closet, perfectly aligned in a row.

The single bed is neatly made as if to give the illusion that no one has slept in it recently. There is an empty glass on the nightstand next to it with a lamp and a phone. A couple of balled up pieces of paper and sweater rest on top of the small bench in the corner and a single duffel bag lies partially under the table, already packed. It seems as if someone has been living here with the intent to leave at a moment’s notice.

Ten turns. “You're hurt.”

It is at that moment that Kun notices blood dripping down his wrist, and he uncurls his hand to reveal the bloody line from earlier. He stares at it for a moment, unsure how something could hurt so badly and still be beyond his notice. He doubts he would have even thought about it if Ten had not mentioned it.

“It's fine,” he says, even as Ten gently takes his hand and teases his fingers outward to look at the wound, He purses his lips and lets go, vanishing into the bathroom for a moment. When he comes back, he is carrying a roll of bandages and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “Sit down.”

“It’s fine,” Kun repeats, even as he sits on the edge of the bed. “It doesn't hurt that bad.”

Since when did he become a habitual liar? Ten shakes his head and takes his hand. “Doesn't matter. A wound like this could easily become infected.”

Kun wants to help but doesn’t know how, so instead he just watches Ten douse the cut in hydrogen peroxide, hissing as it runs down his arm. He can see it bubbling among the blood, and the scent makes his eyes water. Ten wipes the excess liquid and blood away and wraps his hand, slowly and carefully, fingers brushing his palm.

“You’ve got a lot of cuts,” Ten says as he finishes bandaging Kun’s hand. “It doesn't look like there’s any glass in them, but they’re definitely gonna itch like hell tomorrow.”

Kun watches him with wary eyes, expecting the man in front of him to stick a knife in his ribs or lodge a bullet between his eyes. When Ten does neither he simply exhales softly, standing. “Thank you.”

Ten unclips his harness and throws it into the closet. “No problem.”

There is a single cut on his cheek. Kun opens his mouth to say something but realizes it is not a cut on Ten’s cheek—it is a clean, linear splatter of blood.

“Who are you?” Kun asks, watching Ten pull off his belt.

“I’m Ten.” The words are blunt.

“And who is Ten?” Kun asks. Ten drops into the chair at the table, skin pale against his dark clothing. Kun can tell he is incredibly lithe, every part of him muscled and toned in a way that suggests years of hard, trained movement.

“The person who just recently saved your ass from certain death.” He glares at Kun. “You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Kun starts, “for throwing me out of a _20 story building_ without telling me first!”

“You didn’t _die_.”

“I almost did!”

“I wasn't _going_ to let you die,” Ten retorts, annoyed. He rolls his shoulder and neck slightly, bones popping. “I almost dislocated my shoulder trying to catch you.”

“I appreciate it,” Kun says. “Now I’m going home.”

Ten stares at him like he’s an idiot. “Do you want to get murdered? The people who attacked you today are probably canvassing the city right now to finish the job. You go home, and you're practically signing your own death certificate.”

Kun stands in the middle of the room, the curtains casting them both in hazy shadow. The only light comes from the gaps between the curtains, and it falls along Ten’s face in straight, narrow lines. He takes a deep breath. Take another.

“So I'm supposed to stay here?”

He’s not sure he wants to be in close quarters with a killer, especially not for any extended amount of time. Even if he _was_ his secretary. Ten bleeds arrogance and cruelty, despite his winning smile and charm. Every cell in Kun’s body tells him to walk out, damned be the consequences.

“I would highly suggest it,” Ten says calmly, placing a gun and knife on the table. “Of course, I can’t stop you. If you want to leave and die, that's your choice.”

Kun takes another deep breath. “Fine. Okay, I’ll stay.”

The shafts of light that run across Ten’s face shift as he moves. “Good.”

Kun pulls off his suit jacket, sleeves torn. Ten doesn’t acknowledge him, instead dismantling his gun. His face is unreadable, every emotion or intention hidden behind those dark eyes. Kun wishes he knew what he wanted. He wishes he didn't have to stumble around in the dark.

…

“You can sleep in the bed,” Ten says that evening, the only lamp in the room turning the off green wallpaper a dull yellow. 

Kun glances up at him. “What about you?”

“I’ll sit here.”

The wooden chair is high-backed and doesn't look very comfortable. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

“Not all of us can live in multimillion-dollar mansions, Qian.” Ten crosses one leg over the other, the television playing softly in the background. “I apologize.”

Kun opens his mouth to argue, to say _that’s not what I meant, why are you so rude_ and then remembers how he appears to all the world—a young man with a silver spoon, a boy given all the keys to the castle. He keeps his mouth shut and watches Ten walk around the room, pulling a sandwich out of the small fridge beneath the TV. He wordlessly offers Kun half, which he accepts with trembling hands.

The television continues softly, the screen cutting away to a breaking news bulletin. The anchorwoman looks into the camera with level-headed indifference.

_The city is reeling after an attack on the Vision Tech Industries building today by an unnamed militant group. Several employees in the building were wounded but there were no fatalities. Authorities are still searching for the CEO of Vision Tech, 24-year-old Qian Kun, who went missing shortly after the attack—_

“Nobody knows if I’m alive or dead,” Kun says, watching the woman on the screen describe the attack in detail. There is something horrifically entrancing about hearing someone talk about his presumed death, a quality that makes it impossible to look away. “Is that good?”

“Perhaps,” Ten says as he bites into his sandwich. “There are a lot of people looking for you right now. If they think you're dead they might not look as hard.”

“A lot of people?” Kun feels his tongue grow heavy. “More than the ones today?”

Ten shrugs. “When a bounty like that is placed, everyone wants a piece. There are probably several hitmen trying to get to you before the rest do.” He chews slowly, swallows. “It's just business.”

 _Just business_. Sounds like something his father would say.

“Hey, don’t look so down,” Ten says. “They won't get to you here, okay?”

Kun sees Ten grin, an expression that is both familiar and alien all at the same time. There is warmth behind the expression, real and human, and it makes Kun pause.

The blood splatter on Ten’s face has been rinsed away. It is easy to forget it was there at all.

Ten digs through the cabinet drawers and pulls out some clothing: a shirt, a pair of shorts, a sweatshirt. He throws them on the bed.

“I have to step outside for a moment,” Ten says. “I’ll be back soon.”

He ducks out the door into the night. Kun gets a glimpse of the world beyond the door, but that is all he gets—a glimpse of a world he is no longer a part of.

…

“What are you working on at Vision Tech that has people so eager to kill you?” Ten asks, arms crossed, sitting on the floor by the wall.

“I don’t know,” Kun admits, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve been toying with ideas, concepts, but nothing is new or riveting. A different type of engine, perhaps. A new kind of fuel.”

“Is there anyone who could hold a grudge against you?” Ten asks. “Someone with influence? Power?”

Kun’s mind is blank. He never was as analytical as his father was, not in that harsh, dissecting way that powerful men often are. He does not think in angles of arrogance, rarely views other people as threats. His father called it a weakness.

The truth is, Kun doesn't _do_ very much—he’s more of a figurehead than anything else. All real work is whisked away from him and carried into the hands of those more capable and experienced. He reads reports, tours the labs, makes suggestions—but other than that, he has no real sway. His father would never have let people push him around. He would have put his foot down and taken back the keys to his castle, the power of his throne.

His mom often told him he wasn't anything like his father. He finds now, more than ever, that she was right.

The room is entirely dark, no light bleeding through the curtains. Kun pulls absentmindedly at the collar of the shirt Ten let him borrow. “Not that I can think of.”

Ten huffs, leaning his head against the wall. “Think about it.”

Kun does think about it, long and hard, the darkness a blanket around him. He leaves a space on the bed next to him, wide enough for a man Ten’s size, and lets exhaustion pull him away.

...

Kun isn’t sure how well he recognizes the man in the mirror. He applies a bandaid to a cut on the side of his neck, blinking away exhaustion. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hands and arms itch with the healing of a hundred tiny scrapes. He reminds himself not to scratch at them, pulling his sleeves down over his wrists. He presses a thumb into the bandage on his hand and winces.

The door opens and closes, and Kun pokes his head out of the bathroom to see Ten with a plastic shopping bag, his hair slightly damp. He slides the lock shut behind him.

"Here," Ten says as he hands him a bagel. "I thought you'd be hungry."

"You slept on the floor all last night. Aren't you sore?"

"Doesn't really affect me anymore," Ten says. He switches on the television, less to watch anything and more to have something in the background to break the silence. He doesn't look at Kun again, instead turning his attention to the curtains. He pulls one open, leaving half of the room still draped in shadow.

“So what do we do now?”

“We wait.” Ten turns, half-hidden in shadow. 

“For how long?”

He is silent, and the look he gives Kun is wordless and blank. “As long as we have to.”

…

Somewhere between the first day and the second, Kun begins to become restless. He finds himself pacing around the room, walking from the bathroom to the bed in circles, just to have somewhere to go. He opens and closes the curtains. He flips through endless television channels in the hope that he will find something that will ease the monotony.

Ten comes and goes, bringing food and essentials. He barely looks at Kun, unless he's annoyed or chastising him. Kun wants to throw him through the windows, sometimes, just so he can stop that infuriating blankness he seems to reserve only for him.

Kun leaves space on the bed for Ten to sleep, but still he sleeps on the floor, a single pillow and blanket. Sometimes, in the dead of night, Kun hears him speak: snatched whispers, a steady stream of words that do not make sense. Sometimes if he listens close enough, he can hear his own name, whispered sadly. He never asks what Ten is dreaming about, never bothers to wake him.

That night he hears Ten say his name, but all he does is give him an extra blanket.

…

On the third day, the isolation finally manages to sink its hooks into him. 

“I can’t imagine there would be that great a risk if I only went outside for a couple of minutes,” Kun says. “Just to walk around. Just for a little bit.”

Ten sneers at him. It is one of three expressions Kun has ever seen on his face. “Do you want to be shot? If so, then go ahead.”

“It's obvious they haven't found me yet,” Kun points out, “If they had there would have been every opportunity to kill me while you were out. All I'm saying is a couple minutes won’t hurt.”

Ten snaps the curtains open and sunlight fills the room, mixing with the lamplight from the corner, the in-between illuminated in pale yellow. “Go ahead.”

Kun tries to keep himself level, tries not to lean towards anger, but the dismissive tone in Ten’s voice threatens to push him over the edge. “Why do you have to be like that? I'm asking to go outside for some fresh air, to walk around the city with a neon flag attached to my back.”

“I’m sorry if this is too much hardship for you, _Mr. Qian_ ,” Ten says, lip curling. “I am terribly sorry to keep you away from your mansion and expensive cars. I’m sorry for keeping you from getting murdered.” His face never moves once from mild annoyance. “Accept my humble apology,” he spits. 

“Is there a reason you hate me?” Kun asks, feeling his blood simmer in his veins. They are standing in the center of the room, Ten less than a foot away but so much farther.

“I’ve been trying to help you, but you can’t seem to eat it through your privileged head: you go out, you die! Period!”

“You’re being unreasonable!” Kun retaliates, struggling to keep his voice low. “What do you want me to say? Ah, yes, thank you so much _armed stranger_ for confining me in a room for _three days!”_ Kun steps forward, but Ten doesn't move, doesn't flinch. “How do I know you aren't trying to kill me too?”

“If I wanted to kill you,” Ten growls, voice low and slinking, “I would have done it a long, long time ago.”

Kun doesn't pull back, not even when Ten stabs a finger at his chest, “Get it through your head, rich boy.”

Something in Kun snaps and he shoves Ten backward, almost shocked by his own strength. He can tell the action catches Ten by surprise—his eyes widen for a fraction of a second and then return to a cunning slant, as if he is trying to determine the very source of Kun’s anger.

“Don’t call me that,” Kun says, feeling his heart race. He doesn't enjoy anger, does not like the way it makes him feel. “Don't assume you know everything about me.”

Ten stares at him, chest rising and falling. Something in his eyes sees to be receding, and when he speaks again it is softer, as if he knows he has crossed an invisible line.

“You can't go out. It’s the middle of the day.” He crosses his arms. “It will be safer to go out at night.”

Kun nods. “Thank you.”

“Whatever,” Ten grumbles, pulling on his jacket. “I'll go grab something to eat for now. See you in a little bit.”

Kun opens his mouth to say something, maybe to apologize, but Ten is already gone.

…

Kun knows he doesn't have to explain himself. He knows he doesn't have to rationalize the way he feels to anyone, least of all Ten. But still, he replays the moment of pushing Ten away, seeing him look at him as if he couldn't figure him out. It eats away at him, chips away at the image of himself he has carefully built to keep others out.

Here's the thing: Kun doesn’t hate his father. He wishes he did, hopes that it would make things easier, but he can’t say he ever hated his father. He can't say he never wished his father was there.

All Kun ever wanted was to be his own person: worked his way through school, saved money from summer jobs and birthday gifts. His plan was to move somewhere nice, somewhere far from the city, far from the metal and lights he always associated with his father's obsession and greed. The million-dollar house isn't his, the cars aren't his—they are just remnants of his father, always lurking, always there.

He always wanted to be something _more_. He always wanted to be more than just his father’s son.

_Get it through your head, rich boy._

Kun mindlessly flips through the phone book in the nightstand drawer. He watches the sun set outside the curtains. He wishes, just briefly, that he was not alone.

…

Ten comes back shortly before night falls, and for once he does not seem annoyed or distant. He just seems tired. 

“Eat something,” he says softly. Once again, the curtains are drawn, fluttering in the soft breeze created by the AC unit.

“I'm not very hungry,” Kun mutters. Ten sighs, waving a french fry in front of his face. 

“Come on,” he says gently as if he is trying to coax an animal to water. “Even if it’s junk, you should keep your energy up.”

Kun looks over at Ten’s soft expression, distant but hopeful, and accepts the container of fries. “Got any ketchup?”

…

When the sun is finally gone, when the last bits of light in the sky are the moon and stars, Ten unlocks the door. 

“It's a little chilly out,” he says, peeking around the corner. “Do you wanna borrow a jacket?”

“I’ll be fine,” Kun says, stepping over the threshold and onto the concrete that juts out over the parking lot. The night air is chilly, and Kun inhales deeply, trying to imprint the night air onto his lungs. “Thank you.”

“You were right.” Ten looks over the railing with him. “I was being unreasonable. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for pushing you,” Kun murmurs. The cold air is beginning to make goosebumps rise along his bare arms. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Ten shrugs. “I was being a little rude. I'm just lucky you don't actually know how to throw a punch—you’re pretty strong.”

Kun looks at the ground below. “I just got so angry for a moment, I...I wasn't thinking.”

“You know, I always assumed you were spoiled,” Ten says. “Boy inherits dad’s company, gets everything handed to him on a silver platter, then messes around day and night and never cares about anyone else. That's what I thought you would be like, the first day I met you.”

Kun’s fingers curl around the railing. “Do you still think of me like that?”

Ten is silent for a moment, and the pause is almost deafening. “I've seen carelessness and corruption, but not in you. You may not know what's going on half the time, but at least you try.”

“Gee, thanks for pointing out that I have no clue how to run a company.”

Ten gives him a rare, glittering smile. “Well, do you?”

Kun almost laughs. “Obviously not.”

The wind picks up for a moment and Kun shivers. Ten’s expression immediately shifts to one of concern and he reaches out, hands warm on Kun’s skin, “It's cold. We should go in.”

Kun lets Ten pull him back into the butter-yellow light of the motel room, and as he watches the stars vanish behind the door, he doesn't feel like he is in a cage anymore. 

_Just a little bit longer_ , he tells himself as he watches Ten strip off his jacket, a knife hidden in his belt. _Just a little bit longer._

…

Consider the following: you fall in love. You don't know it yet, but it’s true.

“Sleeping on the floor is bad for your back. We can switch, you know.”

Ten looks up in surprise as if he is not sure he has heard Kun correctly. “What?”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Kun says. “You can sleep on the bed.”

Ten shakes his head. “No, I’m fine—”

Kun raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you have something against mattresses?”

Ten wipes at his knife with his sleeve. His gun rests on the table, barrel gleaming. “No, it just...I guess I'll feel bad if you have to sleep on the floor.”

Kun can almost imagine the gigantic question mark floating above his head. “The bed is big enough for two. We can share.”

Ten coughs violently. “We—no, we can't.”

Kun shrugs and lies down, turning until he is facing the wall. “Suit yourself. Your spine is going to get awfully stiff.”

There is a long silence. “You really don't mind?”

“I suggested it didn't I?” Kun looks over his shoulder and sees Ten staring at him with the oddest expression, something half masked that Kun can't quite make out. 

The lights are out, and Ten’s face is partially hidden in shadows. Kun can make out the curve of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes, but not much else. The AC unit drones on and Ten sits on the opposite side of the bed, slowly, as if he is afraid to disturb some tenuous peace between them. He regards Kun with wary eyes, as if this is somehow a trap.

“Good night, Kun,” he whispers softly.

Kun stares at the wall as he feels Ten’s weight settle in next to him, inches away and yet so much closer. “Good night, Ten.”

…

“Do you know how to throw a proper punch?”

The curtains are open and sunlight falls in through the window, painting a large rectangle of light on the floor and bed.

“Sure,” Kun says. “It can't be that hard, right?”

Ten gives him an inescapable grin. “Why don't you try to hit me?”

Kun stands and Ten spreads his arms wide. There is a different light about him today, something captured in the sun's rays but nowhere else. Kun punches forward but Ten simply steps back, lightning quick.

“That won’t do,” Ten says, shaking his head and adjusting Kun’s wrist. “You have to stand straighter. Brace yourself.”

Kun does as he’s told, allowing himself to be molded into place by Ten’s firm hand. He steps back and looks at Kun’s posture. “That’s better. _Now_ try to hit me.”

Kun punches forward but Ten just steps to the side, tapping his side. “Try again. Try to predict where I’ll go.”

He steps back again and Kun tries to punch him, aiming for the center of his face but missing him entirely as Ten dodges the blow and taps his chest instead. 

“Better, but not quite.” He grins.

“You’re obviously a lot better at this than I am,” Kun huffs. “I could never win against you.”

Ten adjusts his stance, pushing his shoulders back a little. “That’s true. But you should at least try, Qian Kun.”

Kun grits his teeth at the use of his full name. He swings wildly and this time he feels the edge of his knuckle graze Ten’s ear, not half as close as he would like it to be. Ten grabs his arm and flings him backward onto the bed, raising an eyebrow as Kun lets out a surprised yelp. 

“Not bad,” Ten admits, knee resting on Kun’s chest. The action of throwing Kun around like a rag doll didn't seem to faze him in the slightest, even though Kun feels as if all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. “You caught me off guard.”

Kun laces hands behind Ten’s head, smiling. “Think I can do it again?”

Ten opens his mouth to say something but Kun shoves him sideways, hands still on the back of his neck. The single second of shock in Ten’s eyes as he tumbles onto his back fills Kun with a brief sense of accomplishment, warm and bubbly. He looks down at him, grinning, a hand on either side of his head.

“To be honest, I did not think you could do it again,” Ten says, looking up at him. His hands are tight around Kun’s arms, as if he is afraid that he will topple over if he lets go. 

Kun wants to say something fun and quippy but he realizes that he’s suddenly nervous, anxious, as if something could happen in the next moment that he does not expect. Ten’s hands are unbelievably warm and his heart is unbelievably loud in his chest.

Kun clears his throat. “Well, I’m full of surprises, I guess.”

Ten gives him a long, unreadable look. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess you are.”

Kun moves away, kneeling on the edge of the bed. He watches Ten roll his neck and shoulders, fluid as oil. He stands, offering Kun his hand.

“Good job. Now try it again.”

Consider the following: you are in love, and you don't yet know it, but you begin to suspect that something is different.

…

_The search for the young CEO continues, with no new insights into his disappearance. Mystery continues to surround the attack on Vision Tech, with some theorists suggesting it was the work of the now-absent CEO—_

The blonde news anchor looks at the camera with an expression of blank professionalism as she talks, face perfectly composed. For a second Kun loses himself in her eyes, mind swirling in tight worried circles. 

“They think I’m to blame,” he says numbly as Ten reaches over to grab the remote. “They think I attacked my own company.”

“It's a logical thought, but it’ll die out soon enough,” Ten says quietly, shutting off the TV. “Don’t worry about it.”

Kun looks over at Ten, the both of them sitting side by side on the bed. Ten sits with his hands behind his head, almost languishing, but Kun knows Ten relaxes like a snake does. Not at all.

“How can you be so calm?” Kun asks, the lamp turning everything an ill yellow. “How can you...do what you do? Doesn't it bother you?”

Ten shrugs, eyes closed. “It's been a long time since anything truly bothered me, Kun.”

“You killed someone.”

Ten blinks open a single eye. “I killed someone to protect you. It evens out, doesn’t it?”

Kun doesn’t respond. He reaches over and turns off the lamp. The sudden shadow is suffocating.

“You never told me what comes after this,” Kun says in the dark. Ten breathes slowly, but Kun knows he is still awake. "You never told me what you have planned.”

“That’s because I'm not sure.” Ten turns over to look at him, hand reaching into the space between them but not close enough, never close enough. He places his hand there on the bed, palm down, as if he wants to touch Kun but cannot. 

“I can't hide here forever,” Kun whispers, watching Ten’s eyes glitter in the darkness. The air conditioning unit drones on, blasting cold air over Kun’s shoulder. “I can't live my life in hiding.”

“I know.” Ten’s voice is soft. 

This is what Kun’s life has been reduced to—a man in hiding, living beneath a shadow and behind closed curtains and closed doors. He is sleeping next to a man that he trusts more than he trusts himself, and he is still afraid of what he may do. He lives his life in pale yellow lamplight, in motel furniture, in the never-ending chatter of cable television.

The air conditioning unit cuts off and Kun can hear a hitch in Ten’s breath, one that was hidden before.

“If I can figure out who wants you dead, I can make them retract the bounty,” Ten says quietly. “But I just don’t know. I just don’t know what to do.”

Kun reaches out and rests his hand on Ten’s, the action unpracticed and unsure. He feels Ten’s fingers tense up beneath his as if he wants to pull away but does not know how. 

“Tomorrow,” Kun says. The room is cold but Ten’s hand is warm, wrist twisting as he intertwines his fingers with Kun’s. “We can figure it out tomorrow.”

Ten doesn’t say anything else. He doesn't move, just closes his eyes.

That night they sleep with their hands intertwined, the only spot of warmth in the chill.

…

Kun is a scientist at heart, not a businessman or a shark. He knows that for all his success he is not a heavyweight in the industry, does not have the power or pull that other companies have. He didn't even mean to end up like this—he just wanted to build planes. He just wanted to live somewhere other than the city.

When he opens his eyes in the morning Ten is already awake, dressed, and packing a bag. The television is on, the news channel dully relating today’s weather. Kun blinks, hand stiff. He opens and closes his hand a few times, watching the healing scar on his palm flex and shine.

“If you change your identity and leave the country, they won’t be able to find you,” Ten says hurriedly. “You can start a new life, a couple of years and then you won't have to worry anymore. I can get everything you need—papers, a passport.”

Kun sits up, rubbing at his eyes. The room is still cold, and the weak sunlight filtering through the open curtains does nothing to change the fact. “Ten, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Ten shoves his gun into his pants, a knife into his jacket. “It's the best option.”

“I can't live in fear. I can't live a lie.” Ten’s eyes are red. “We both know that. Sooner or later, I will have to face the truth.”

“People want to kill you and you care about lying? Kun, everyone lies. You lie. I lie.” Ten turns away, resting his palms flat on the table. “The truth won’t save your life.”

Kun swings his legs over the side of the bed. He wants to rest a hand on Ten’s shoulder, he wants to say that he is willing to take risks, but he can't do that. He places his palm flat on the wall instead, the slightly bumpy texture of the wallpaper digging into his fingers.

“I can't run away.” Kun presses against the wall, the sore spot on his hand tingling. 

“You can, you stubborn idiot,” Ten snaps. “I gave you a solution. I gave you an option. Do you want to live or die?” 

Ten’s lips are pale, and his eyes have a faded red tinge as if he has been crying. Kun can't picture it, Ten crying—fierce, terrifying Ten. The picture doesn't align; the forgery does not match the original.

“If I can't live as myself, I've already died.” 

Ten shakes his head. “Kun, please.”

“I’ll find whoever wants me dead. _I’ll_ stop them.”

“Kun, you are just a _man_ ,” Ten says, voice breaking. “You're not invincible, you're not a hero, and you _will_ get hurt in the end.”

Kun watches Ten pace towards the windows, pace to the side of the bed, pick up the phone and then place it back down. He refuses to meet Kun’s eyes, refuses to dignify him with a direct glance.

“And what are you, Ten?”

He doesn't respond. His chest rises and falls with rattling breaths, mouth open yet saying nothing.

“Answer me,” Kun says, voice dying in his throat. “What are you?”

Ten closes his eyes and pulls open the door with enough force to pull it off its hinges. “I'll be back in a little while. Keep the door locked.”

“Wait, come back—”

The door slams shut, and it is only after a long moment that Kun realizes his face is wet with tears.

…

In the empty hotel room, with the television playing infomercials in the background, Kun realizes three things.

One: he does not know what he is doing. He has no clue what comes next. There is no formula, no equation, no project that can point him in the right direction. He lives his life on the edge of a broken compass needle, swinging wildly between escape and certain death. He cannot tell which is which, cannot tell east from west or night from day.

Two: there is someone in this city, in this world, that wants him dead. They want something that he has, something so important that they will take his life rather than ask. The only thing Kun has worth taking is the company his father gave him, the empire his father built out of solid stone. It is the only thing he can imagine anyone wanting. _The world despises those with power,_ his father had once said. _They will do anything to take it from you._ Maybe he was right. Maybe, in all his cruelty and analysis, he was right.

Three: Kun trusts Ten so much it hurts him. He would willingly place his life in Ten’s hands if it meant them standing side by side, would give up everything if Ten asked him the right way. It is a sickening feeling, a hollowing of his chest, but he cannot ignore it. He’s become a sucker for a boy with a handgun, with midnight eyes, with a sharp, pale grin. He’s become a fool imprisoned in his own heart, and he can see no way out.

…

A knock on the door. Kun pokes his head out of the bathroom, running a towel through his damp hair. He goes to the door, resting his hand on the doorknob and undoing the lock, even as something in his chest nags at him. A warning bell goes off in his head, something he struggles to latch onto.

The air conditioning unit cuts off, and Kun pulls his hand away from the doorknob as if he has been burned. Ten wouldn’t knock—he has a _key_.

Kun stumbles away from the door but the damage has already been done. The door bursts open, the edge hitting him in the face so hard he hears a crack. His hand flies up to his bleeding nose and someone grabs him, wrenching his arm away. He feels hands on him, feels someone forcing him into the chair, even as he kicks and screams. He can taste blood on his tongue, the taste as sharp and acrid as iron.

Someone holds his arms behind his back as someone else walks into the room, a man with a black suit. Gold is finely woken into the fabric in the shape of a dragon, long and coiling around the man’s shoulders. He looks down at Kun, eyes colder than the deepest winter.

“Usually it isn't this difficult to kill someone,” the man sighs, sitting on the bed. He crosses one leg over the other, leaning forward. “What’s your secret, Mr. Qian?”

Kun tries to avoid spitting blood on the man’s shoes, so he says nothing. The man gives him an amused smile, handsome face somehow crueler than it would seem.

“I would kill you now, but I would like to have a word with your…” Jaehyun glances around the room, raising an eyebrow. “...roommate.”

“Who is trying to kill me?” Kun chokes out, arm burning. He can see the man behind him out of the corner of his eye, tall and dark-haired, immaculately dressed.

“Someone who is willing to pay handsomely for your demise,” the man says, leaning back. He is out of place among the peeling wallpaper and rumpled sheets, too elegant and refined. He reminds Kun of a black cobra in a petting zoo—not meant to be there in any way, shape, or form.

 _Who_ , Kun wants to yell. _WHO?_

The man pulls a gun out of his suit jacket, the black metal inlaid with the same gold design on his suit. 

“There he is now,” the man says, his following smile never quite reaching his eyes.

Footsteps, up the stairs and outside, and suddenly Ten is at the door with his gun in his hand, He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling with each breath.

Jaehyun presses his gun to Kun’s forehead, the metal so cold against his skin it makes him flinch. The man’s eyes narrow. “Drop the gun, Ten.”

Ten stares at him, mouth set in a grim slash, and slowly lowers his hand. He throws the gun onto the bed, where it bounces beside the man’s leg. 

“It's good to know you can still follow instructions.” The man in the black suit stands, gun still pressed against Kun’s forehead. Kun closes his eyes for a second, struggling to breathe. His arm feels like it's being wrenched out of its socket.

“What do you want,” Ten says, voice a low growl. Kun has never seen him look this angry, his face becoming almost unrecognizable in its coldness.

“I didn’t expect this from you,” the man in the suit ays, gold thread flashing as he turns to look at Ten. “You always were the best of us.”

“What.” Ten grits his teeth. “Do. You. Want.”

“I want to know why you haven't killed him yet,” the man in the suit says calmly. “I get it—we all like a little rebellion here and there. Maybe you wanted the money for yourself. Fine.” The man’s eyes narrow. “But what I haven't figured out is why he isn’t dead.”

Kun watches Ten’s face become as still and hard as marble, marveling at the beauty of that harshness even as his heart plummets to the floor.

“I don't work for you anymore, Jaehyun.”

“Bold of you to assume you can ever stop,” Jaehyun looks at Kun. “You have a million dollar egg in your nest...why haven't you cracked it?”

“You have no right to be here,” Ten snaps. 

Jaehyun smiles. “You’re getting weak, my dear friend. You’re getting soft.”

Ten meets Kun’s eye for a brief moment and then slides away. “You don't know anything about me.”

“Then kill him,” Jaehyun says, swinging his arm. In the blink of an eye, the barrel of his gun rests against Ten’s forehead. “Prove me wrong.”

Kun struggles against the man holding him, but he only wrenches his arm tighter against his back, Kun’s shoulder forming a harsh, unnatural angle with his spine.

Ten stares at Jaehyun, eyes dark. He gives him a swaggering grin as if he wants to laugh. “I don't have to prove anything to you.”

Jaehyun does not move. He cocks the gun. “You do it or I’ll do it, Ten. Which do you prefer?”

Kun’s heartbeat seems to have gone still in the silence, the world quieting to a dull roar that moves with his veins. His shoulder burns but it is just dull background noise, a distraction from the main show. 

Ten presses his forehead against the gun so hard that Jaehyun's hand is pushed back. The black metal leaves indents in his skin. “Eat dirt, Jaehyun.”

Jaehyun smiles at him. “I don’t think so.”

A single gunshot in the silence. The roar spikes to a scream.

Ten’s eyes burn as he holds Jaehyun’s wrist, gun pointed towards the ceiling. Plaster cracks fall from the newly formed bullet hole. 

“Try again.” Ten’s voice is low, and his expression seems to be something that Kun has seen before in depictions of furious angels, in paintings of Lucifer himself. 

Everything happens in fragmented, broken seconds—Ten elbowing Jaehyun in the jaw, the gun falling into Ten’s open palm, a bullet blazing over Kun’s head, his arm being released. He falls to the floor, his shoulder slowly remembering its natural position. 

Gunshots echo throughout the room and Kun ducks behind the bed, hands over his ears. The tall man in the suit goes flying into the wall and crumples to the ground, out cold. Ten falls into a crouch beside him, Jaehyun’s black gun like a solidified piece of oil wrapped in his hands.

“Are you hurt badly?” Ten asks, grabbing the bag he was packing earlier. He throws things into it with abandon, and even then he still leaves half his belongings behind. “Is your nose broken?”

“I don't think it is,” Kun says, wiping away quickly drying blood. “I’ll be fine.”

Ten nods, already turning his attention away. “Nowhere in the city is safe,” he says, opening the door. He empties the bullets from Jaehyun’s gun and throws it onto the bed, grabbing his own. “Do you have a place outside the city where you stay? Somewhere no one would think to look?”

“My mom’s house in the country, but—”

“We go there, then.” Ten leans down and rifles through the tall man’s pockets, pulling out a case of bullets and a long knife, then slides both into his pockets. “Do you have anything you desperately need from here?”

“No,” Kun says, watching Ten move with a grim reaper’s deadly grace. “I don’t.”

“Good. We leave now.”

…

The day no longer feels safe to Kun. He can no longer look at the midday sky with peace. He has begun to find comfort in the inky shadows, and so as they drive away from the motel he finds himself blinking, always looking away from the sun.

Ten chatters, words slurring together as he says them. It is like something has cracked open, something as delicate and hollow as an eggshell, and now he cannot stop talking. He says _listen, I know a guy that can forge you papers_ and _we can dye your hair, no one will recognize you_ and _I’m sorry but this is the only way_.

The world despises those with power. Doesn’t it also go the other way around? Power breeding indifference, unhappiness, anger—the ability to kill a man is power in its purest form. The original demonstration of control.

“Who was that man?” Kun interrupts, slicing through Ten’s stream of run-on sentences. “Jaehyun?”

Ten grits his teeth, finally silent. He’s hastily stuck a pink bandage over a cut on his face, and the effect is almost comedic in the way the color contrasts with his dark clothing and harsh gaze. “An old friend.”

“He didn't seem very friendly.”

“Like I said, an _old_ friend.”

Kun watches Ten’s hands tighten on the wheel, watches his eyes gloss over and recede. They both know the next logical question. They both know what comes next.

“What was he talking about?” Kun asks. Ten’s expression doesn’t change.

“Don’t worry about it.” The words are blunt. 

_I want to know why you haven't killed him yet._

“Tell me the truth.”

“Can’t this wait?” Ten grumbles, pulling out onto the highway. “Do we have to do this now?”

“I want to know what he was talking about,” Kun says, hands cold. “I want to know what he meant.”

Ten doesn’t say anything. He scratches mindlessly at the bandage on his cheek, one hand on the wheel. The road is full of cars, and the sun glints off of each one separately. Stars in the daytime.

“I used to work for him,” Ten says. 

“He’s been trying to kill me.”

“Jaehyun likes to do things a certain way.” Ten adjusts his rearview mirror, hands fidgeting on the wheel, rubbing at his neck, adjusting his mirror. He can't seem to sit still, even as his eyes remain glued to the highway. “That much money, he would want to make sure things were done right.”

Kun feels his throat tighten.

“An attack on Vision Tech would be the last resort,” he says quietly, voice almost lost in the road music around them. “It requires more staging, more explanation. An attack implies a large group with a motive, something he would have to invent to make such a move seem plausible. Normally targets are taken out when they least suspect it. In their homes. In their offices.”

Ten’s exhales softly. “He always sends his best. He doesn't expect failure.”

Ten with the key to his car. Ten following him in the parking garage. Ten sitting outside his office, eyes trained on his door. Kun can’t imagine himself being played like a fool, but he was, can’t imagine trusting someone whose heart he was never even able to see into.

King, knight, pawn. Kun has been all three.

“Let me out of this car right now,” Kun says, voice low.

Ten’s mouth is set, his face is blank, but his eyes have a reckless desperation in them. He seems like a man on the edge of a cliff, tumbling among the rocks, almost falling but never quite.

“Kun, you have to trust me.” His breath hitches in his throat. “I am not going to hurt you.”

“You have been lying to me ever since we met. Even when I began to trust you. Even when I placed my life in your hands.” Kun’s voice is quiet. “How am I supposed to trust you now? _How?_ ”

The road drones on, car rumbling, sun bouncing off the windshield. The sun is too high in the sky for the darkness clouding Kun’s heart; the day is too bright for the unhappiness that tastes like poison on his tongue.

“Let me explain,” Ten says, his words broken open and raw like a wound. “Please.”

“Let me out of here.”

“I can't do that, we are in the middle of the highway, at least let me take you to your mother’s house—”

Kun forces down the tears choking his throat, tries to ignore the feeling that he is drowning. He wants to leave, he wants to stay, he wants to scream. He wants Ten to say something true to him. He wants to say something true back.

“Fine,” Kun spits. “But don't speak to me. Don't say a word.”

Ten presses his lips together, and they do not speak. The road drones on, silent yet not, and for the first time in days they simply do not speak.

…

As they leave the city, the sky begins to gray, rain not far behind them. Kun rests his head on the window and watches as the houses grow far and few between, sees lawns give way to fields and forest. The sky quietly tears itself apart, fat raindrops splattering on the windshield.

Kun had almost forgotten how quiet it was outside the city. Here, he is far from the glittering lights and tall buildings, the unhappy rush of people going everywhere.

“Here,” Kun says softly. “Turn here.”

Ten does without a word, and after a while, Kun sees a little yellow house surrounded by trees. The flowers in the front garden are all overgrown, choking each other and spilling onto the sidewalk. Kun presses his hand to the car window, glass cold against his skin.

Ten turns off the car and the steady rumble that filled the silence halts.

Kun opens the car door. “You might as well come inside,” he says, not looking at Ten. “The roads flood when it rains like this.”

He doesn't hear Ten move behind him, and as he steps out of the car rain soaks into his shirt, cold and gentle. He stands there for a moment, hears the other car door slam shut.

Something heavy rests on his shoulders, warm fabric. Ten’s jacket. His voice is almost nonexistent. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Kun goes to the door, the paint peeling at the edges, and digs a key out of a flower pot on the stairs. The lock clicks and the door swings open, revealing an empty, dark hallway.

“Is your mother here?” Ten asks, foot hesitating over the threshold before he finally steps inside. He peers up a dark stairway, forehead creased.

“My mother died several years ago,” Kun says, flicking on the light. “My father didn’t sell the house right away. I...I told him I wanted to live here.”

Ten draws a line through the fine dust on the table. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a while,” Kun says quietly, pulling the curtains open. Cloudy gray light filters in, the sky stuck somewhere between day and night. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Ten wanders mindlessly, gently picking up a picture on the shelf. The glass is covered with dust, but Kun watches Ten carefully sweep it away, as if he is holding a holy artifact. “Is this...is this you?”

Kun peers over Ten’s shoulder at the image of a small boy, happily waving to the camera. His hair is cut short and he’s wearing a striped shirt, and he is so, so young. 

“Yeah,” Kun says, easing the photo out of Ten’s hand. “That was a long time ago.”

The house is dark and dusty but it is still home to Kun, no matter how long it has been since he has been here last. It's been at least a year since the last time he was here, but he still remembers it as it was shortly after his mother’s death, when the pain was fresh and he was still bright-eyed with thoughts of the future. He moved to the city but he didn't have the heart to throw this small piece of his life away, the one thing he truly loved. He had always imagined having a house like this in the future, one of his own, something to share with his family.

 _Some future,_ Kun thinks as he watches Ten pull off his pink Band-aid. 

Out of all the angles Kun could have predicted for the future, this was not one of them. To be hunted down like a criminal, to crave the darkness like an animal, to fear his own shadow—he could never have predicted this. He could never have seen it, not with the clearest eyes or the sharpest vision.

“Are you hungry?” Kun asks, pulling open a cabinet. The fridge is empty, but he kept some canned food in case he ever came back. It's too late to go to the store, and he knows the roads are already becoming treacherous.

Ten sits at the wooden dining table, digging a fingernail into a crack in the wood. He doesn’t say anything, and when Kun turns to look at him he focuses all his attention on that one small crack, as if it is the very thing that brought him into existence.

Kun makes enough soup for two anyway. 

…

There are two bedrooms: the one that once belonged to his mother and the one that once belonged to him. His father was never there very often but sometimes he visited on weekends. When Kun was young he would bring him gifts and candy, movies and toys. As he got older all that bled away and Kun found that he never did see him as often as before. The city had taken him away, the company, his own working greed.

The toys and movies were shoved in boxes and given away. Kun wonders if they were able to make anyone happy.

Kun opens the door to his room and sees it just as it was a year ago—light blue wallpaper, clouds painted all along the ceiling. Books line the shelf in the corner of the room, pens fill the painted jar on the dresser. He picks up the blanket on the end of the bed and shakes it, coughing as dust floats into the air.

The question is this: what should he do?

The simple answers come to him first: he should shake out the dust in the sheets and check for bugs. He should make sure the windows are all locked, he should see if all the lights still work. Take a shower. Go to sleep.

The answer he wants, however, eludes him: what should he do with Ten?

Forgiveness does not always come easily to Kun, he admits it. He wants to wipe the slate clean but he cannot — instead he gets hung up on Ten’s face in the parking garage that one night. How he had seemed intent on doing something that he never did. 

How is Kun supposed to let go of the fact that he slept in the same bed as the man who was supposed to kill him? How can he feel at ease when he remembers he is wearing the same coat that a killer wore?

Kun shakes out the sheets in his room and then in the other room. He does not hear Ten moving around the house, but knows in his heart that he is.

…

Ten is lying on the couch, hands behind his head, watching the ceiling fan spin lazy circles above. His wet shirt is gone and Kun can see the pale skin all along his stomach, can see the irregular scars across his abdomen. They lock eyes and Ten looks away like a child playing hide and seek, as if not seeing him means he is not there.

“This is your chance to explain,” Kun murmurs. “It is your only one.”

“There’s no point.” Ten thoughtlessly scratches at his cheek. “You know. We both know you know.”

Kun sinks into the chair across from the sofa, the floral upholstery worn and faded. “Let me hear it from you.”

Ten sits up, elbows resting on his knees, pushing his hair away from his face. “Jaehyun hired me to kill you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I could have guessed,” Kun starts. “But I wanted to hear the truth.”

“Well, now you have it. Anything else you want?”

“Did you mean to kill me that night in the parking garage? When you gave me those keys?”

Ten doesn’t have to answer—his confession is written in the darkness of his eyes, in the way he inhales sharply at the question. He looks at his hands, calloused and scarred.

“It was going to look like you were mugged,” Ten breathes. “The keys were in case you weren't alone. I would've waited in your car until you were.”

Kun’s lungs have stopped working. Now they are just faulty parts of himself, running on the last vestiges of energy they have left. He breathes in and out, but even that is forced, labored, coming to an end. 

“Thank you,” Kun murmurs. 

Ten frowns at him, tilting his head. “For what?”

“For not killing me, I guess.”

Ten shakes his head, standing. Kun watches walk towards the window, outlined by shadows and moonlight. He says nothing—just crosses his arms and stares at the mountains outside, the wildflowers in the valley, the dark trees. He doesn’t look at Kun, and somehow that hurts more than anything else.

“You shouldn't thank me for that,” Ten says over his shoulder. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Why do you say that?” Kun asks as he pushes himself out of the chair, afraid to come too close, afraid to move away. “You chose to save me instead of hurting me. Doesn't that deserve some thanks?”

“You don’t know who I am,” Ten responds, almost laughing, and though his words have a harsh tint to them they do not sound angry. They sound like a passable attempt at anger, overshadowed by something else. Something deeper, something harder to ignore. “You cannot understand.”

“Then tell me.”

Silence. Pained, unhappy silence. Kun walks closer to the window, watching Ten’s reflection shift next to his.

“I couldn't kill you that night because I was weak,” Ten whispers, reaching out to rest a hand on Kun’s cheek. “I knew what would happen if I didn’t, I knew what Jaehyun would do, but I couldn't.”

Ten’s hand is cold against his skin and his palms are rough but Kun doesn’t move away. Instead, he places his hand over Ten’s, curling his fingers around his. 

“Why didn't you do it then?” Kun asks, watching Ten’s face grow softer, sadder. “You had every opportunity after that—why didn't you?”

Kun thinks of every chance Ten had to kill him, thinks about how he turned his back on him, trusted him, slept back to back in the same bed with him. He thinks about how Ten never raised a hand to hurt him, not in any way he realized. 

The burning question keeps burning. It becomes a fire that consumes him, a sun that is present all hours of the night.

_Why?_

“You trusted me. You trusted me with your whole heart. You hadn't done anything wrong, you hadn't hurt anyone, you weren’t cruel or unkind. And because of that, I made the biggest mistake I could possibly make.” Ten says, voice raspy. He looks away, his hand dropping. 

“Ten…”

“Don't make me say it,” Ten says, his words vicious in the way a dying animal is. Desperate and lashing. “Don’t make me say I fell in love with you.”

The words are like a bullet to the heart.

Kun doesn't have the words to respond because all he has is one word, a word that he is not ready to say. His heart knows Ten as the one thing it desires, likens it to safety and home and order, even as the rest of Kun’s life has been thrown into disarray. Kun loves him, in a way that is solely his own and unexplainable to anyone else.

“Do you wish you hadn’t?”

Ten turns halfway, his profile black against the window. Kun sees the slope of his nose and the curve of his eyelashes, sees his mouth open and close.

“Kun, because of me you have to live your life on the run. Because of me, you won't find peace until someone kills you. I've doomed you.”

“Do you wish you hadn't?” Kun asks again, more insistently this time. “Do you wish you had just killed me instead?”

Ten stares at him, stepping closer, and his eyes seem to parallel only the night sky in their beauty. “No,” Ten says softly. “I don’t.”

Kun rests a hand on Ten’s arm, gently squeezing. There are no words worthy enough to break the silence and so he says nothing, instead tracing the way the moonlight pieces itself across Ten’s skin like a puzzle, shadow and light. He kisses Ten on the cheek once, only once, lingering there for a moment before pulling away. Ten inhales sharply as Kun’s mouth brushes his skin, curling his hands in the hem of Kun’s shirt as if he is a drowning man clinging to a single piece of driftwood. His touch is reverent, as if Kun is the only thing between him and oblivion. 

Kun leans back, skin burning. Ten’s eyes are almost black in the darkness, his scars curling around his waist like streaks of dull white paint. Maybe Kun has lost his mind, but at this moment he cannot imagine a more beautiful sight.

 _You saved me, in more ways than one,_ Kun wants to say into the silence. _I was just a scientist without direction, I was just a heart without a home, I was just—_

Kun pushes the half-finished thought away. He steps back, even as Ten’s fingers scrape his waist. “It's late. Get some rest.”

Ten’s eyes flicker over his face, unreadable. He brushes hair away from Kun’s forehead, touch fleeting.

He turns and leaves the room, heading up the stairs. The sudden darkness is suffocating.

…

Here is who Kun is:

He is the 24-year-old CEO of Vision Tech, one of the fastest-growing aerospace companies in the world. He inherited the company from his father and changed its infrastructure, accounting for its massive success. He is a graduate of an Ivy League school, an engineer and a scientist. He is unfathomably young to be in this position, and it is a testament to his gifts.

Here is who Kun _really_ is:

He’s a man sitting in a dusty room by himself, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. He is a scientist on the run that is not half as confident as most would think he is. He is someone ready to break their heart in two for a man with calloused palms and a demon’s smile, a man who can kill another man without blinking an eye, someone who has saved his life more times than he can count.

Here is what Kun is: a fool.

…

Kun wakes sometime in the dark morning to hear a crash from downstairs and before he knows it he is out of bed and racing down the stairs, bare feet thumping against the wood. He turns the corner and sees a man in a pinstriped suit punch the wall beside Ten’s head. The force of the hit leaves a solid dent in the drywall.

The light is on and it gives everything the same sickly yellow hue, the lightbulb flickering between minutes. The man in the suit wears a mask that covers the bottom of his face but not his unnaturally red hair and angry eyes. Ten wraps his arms around him, pulling him back, but the man simply slams his back into the wall until Ten lets go. Kun watches in unsure fear as the man wraps a hand around Ten’s forehead. Ten grabs the man’s wrist but Kun can see it is like trying to bend an iron bar—the man doesn’t even waver.

Ten’s head knocks against the wall and there is an audible, sickening crack, but he doesn’t let go of the masked man. Kun looks frantically around the room, trying to help.

He grabs an old vase off of the table next to him, the shape clumsy to wield, and bashes it against the intruder's head. It shatters into chunks and the fake flowers in it bounce against the hardwood floor, undamaged. The man stumbles back for a moment and Ten shoves him back, eyes hard and muscles taut. Pottery crunches beneath his feet and Kun can only watch as they tumble against the floor, fists flying. 

There is a gasp and Ten is thrown over the dining table, his eyes widening. He looks at Kun, eyes sliding to his and then out of view as he crashes to the floor, and Kun watches as the attacker pulls a gun from the inside of his jacket.

Time grinds to a halt, slows to nothing, and Kun watches in horror as the man pulls the trigger. Kun doesn’t have the strength or foresight to run, and he feels like the proverbial deer in the headlights—doomed to die because of his own indecision. The gun clicks.

Kun takes a step back and he feels hands on his shoulders, a body shoving him out of the way. Ten grabs the man’s gun by the barrel and forces it downwards but there is a bang, louder than thunder and twice as terrifying. Ten moves as fast as a shadow and suddenly the attacker stumbles back, a sharpened piece of pottery protruding from his throat like the ornament on a piece of jewelry, and collapses on the floor as blood spurts from the wound. 

Ten is breathing heavily as he too slips to the ground, knees cracking against the wood. There is blood on his face and already bruises are starting to mottle the skin on his cheek. He looks at Kun and gives him the weariest of smiles, and Kun rushes forward to draw him into his arms. He places a hand on the back of Ten’s head to prop him up but his fingers come away covered in blood.

“Ten!”

Ten takes a shuddering breath and shakes his head. He raises a hand slick with red, drawing Kun’s eyes to the gaping wound on his side. Ten’s shirt is soaked with blood and it is almost as if the flesh has been torn away, the close impact of the bullet ripping through his side. Kun gasps and watches as Ten’s skin seems to pale before his eyes. He is as white as the walls, as a ghost.

Panic fills his lungs like oil. “You need a hospital!” He shouts, pulling Ten’s shirt off of the wound. The white fabric sticks to the bloody mess below.

Even as he says it he knows it is impossible. The nearest hospital is 30 minutes away, the roads are dark and it has rained so much that at least half of them must be flooded.

Ten shakes his head, eyes closed, lips white.

“I can’t,” he forces out, lungs laboring. “I can’t go to the hospital.”

“Ten, you’ll die—”

“I can’t go,” Ten says. “I _can’t_.”

Kun watches as Ten’s eyes dip shut and it is obvious he is fighting to stay conscious. He has never seen a wound like this up close, can’t even imagine what it is to suffer like this, and suddenly his mind is spiraling to the worst case scenario.

Until now, he had thought Ten was invincible. He had thought nothing bad could happen to him, this man who leaps from buildings and moves faster than the eye can see. He had thought, briefly, that Ten could never die. It seems now, in this painful moment, that he is wrong.

“What am I supposed to do?” Kun’s voice is a horrified hush.

Ten pulls himself upward and staggers forward, Kun holding him up. He heads to the bathroom but by the time he gets there his knees are already giving out. His lips are white, and he has gone so cold it is like Kun has his arms wrapped around a block of ice.

“The bullet went completely through,” Ten grits out. “You’ll have to stitch the wound shut.”

Ten slumps further against the ground, and Kun’s arms are the only thing keeping his head from hitting the tile. “Under the sink,” Ten murmurs weakly. “The black bag.”

Kun stares at him speechlessly for a moment and Ten lets out a sound almost like a pained hiss. Kun lowers him gently against the tub, flinging the cabinet door open so fast it hits the wall. There is a black leather back tucked in the very back and Kun yanks it out, running back to Ten.

Ten takes the bag from Kun with shaking hands and opens it, fingers fumbling. In it is what looks like Ten’s collection of assorted medical supplies, including a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandages. Ten digs through with his unbloodied hand and pulls out a spool of thread with a needle. He clumsily hands it to Kun, who accepts the items with confusion and apprehension. 

“You need to do it,” Ten says, voice like gravel. 

The gears in Kun’s mind click and his eyes widen. “Give you _stitches_ ? Ten, I can’t do that, you need a real doctor, you need a _hospital_ —”

Ten weakly grabs the hem of Kun’s shirt, fingers digging into the material. “I cannot go to the hospital,” he murmurs. “Kun, you _can’t_ take me there.”

Kun hesitates for a moment and Ten grits his teeth and pulls the needle from his hand. He threads it, fingers red and uncoordinated. Kun watches as he pulls up his shirt and the wound is even worse now, in the white bathroom light, than Kun could have imagined. It’s an angry red mess of flesh and the skin is already bruising all the way up Ten’s side. Kun watches as Ten touches the needle to his skin and tries to pull it through. He curses beneath his breath but his quiet voice wavers and Kun watches as the needle slips through his fingers and falls to the floor. Kun picks it up and Ten’s chest is heaving, eyes going closed. 

Kun can’t do this, he _can’t_ , but that doesn’t stop him from re-threading the needle and gently readjusting Tens sprawling limbs so he can see the wound. It’s awful, horrifying to look at, and Kun can’t stop the wave of nausea that coils in his stomach like a snake.

Ten gives him a strained look and lets out a sigh, long and drawn out, as his head drops against the edge of the tub. His eyes are closed. 

Kun places his hand against Ten’s chest. There’s a heartbeat there but it is weak, stuttering, struggling. Kun’s hands are shaking and everything is a blur through his tears because he cannot do this, can’t keep his hands from shaking long enough to press the needle to Ten’s skin. He has somehow failed him, been unable to protect himself, brought him to this, and Kun cannot stop the guilt welling up in him like a black tide threatening to drown him.

He drops the needle. Ten’s breathing is ragged and slow and he seems so pale he is almost translucent.

“Get it together, Qian,” he mutters under his breath. He picks up the needle and threads it slowly, the black thread as delicate as a single hair in his hands. He takes a deep breath. “Get it together.”

Kun is a man of science. He’s been in labs, he’s done work with his hands and with his mind. He knows how to work with delicate pieces of machinery, he knows how to be accurate and precise. So as he pushes the needle through Ten’s skin he doesn’t think of it as Ten’s skin—he just thinks of it as a problem that must be solved, a machine that must be fixed.

Kun does not allow himself to cry anymore.

_I was just a man without a heart._

…

Love is a crutch that Kun has relied on for far too long. He casts it to the side and as soon as the blood is washed off his hands he searches the house for a piece of paper and a pen. He scrawls something hurriedly on a notepad and leaves it on the nightstand next to where Ten is sleeping, breaths soft in the night. Kun wrapped and bandaged the gash on the back of his head and now he leans down to kiss the gap of forehead poking through the bandages, Ten’s hair mussed and sticking in every direction. At least now he seems alive.

Kun places a bottle of painkillers and a water bottle beside the notepad. He packs a small bag and slings it over his shoulders, pulling on a thick coat and hat. He gives Ten one last lingering look before closing the bedroom door shut softly behind him, briefly wondering if he’s doing the right thing.

As he leaves he sees the fake flowers still lying on the floor, whole and untouched by any type of natural death. He picks them up and places them on the dining table, their bright yellow bringing a false cheerfulness to the dark. He drags the dead body on the dining room floor out into the backyard, where it rests among garden tools and old bags of soil. 

He turns all the lights in the house off and slips out the back door.

_I was just a man._

…

The most obvious clues are often the ones most overlooked. Kun knows this now.

He takes Ten’s car through the back roads, less wet from the rain. He heads back to the city, a reverse hero’s journey in which he goes back to the beginning with the sole purpose of never coming back. No peace. No time to reconsider. He arrives in the early morning and pulls into a parking garage. The sun rises like a splatter of ink, bleeding over the horizon.

His phone rings once. Kun holds it to his ear.

“The first thing you should have done was get rid of your phone,” Ten says into the line. “Amateur.”

Kun doesn’t say anything at first, absorbing the exhaustion in Ten’s voice. He sounds breathless, as if this phone call uses all the energy he has left.

“I’m not coming back.” Kun looks out over the city, all high buildings and harsh lines, loveless and cruel. This is the one place he tried to avoid. This is the one evil he did not want to indulge in.

“Kun, there are still people trying to kill you, you aren’t safe—”

“I know who it is,” Kun whispers. “I know who wants me dead.”

Silence. “You always were stubborn.”

“Take care of yourself,” Kun says softly into the phone, Ten’s pained breaths filtering through. “Dont come after me until you’re better.”

“I hate you, Qian Kun.”

Kun smiles: they both know that is not true. Cars pass by below, glittering like rare beetles. “I know.”

Ten doesn’t say anything else and Kun hangs up, the morning cold around him.

…

He buys a black suit at the store down the street from his office. It’s cheap and far too long at the sleeves but hey, it’s better than his blood-streaked jeans, Ten’s shirt. He tries it on in a dressing room, poking at himself in the mirror. Black suit, pale skin. There are dark circles under his eyes. His lips are chapped, small cuts lining his jaw. The fresh scar tissue on his palm itches.

He looks like a ghost masquerading as a man, not quite there but there all the same. Haunted.

The Vision Tech building is only a block away and he figures he’ll just walk, take the risk of being stabbed or shot or whatever it is Ten always feared. Ten would call him reckless, thoughtless.

 _But Ten’s not here,_ Kun thinks, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. _He’s not here._

…

The letters on the door read MOON TAEIL, CFO. Kun doesn’t bother knocking, is only mildly surprised that it is not locked.

“I’m sorry,” Taeil says, not looking up from his computer. “I’m not taking any visitors right now—”

Kun stands in the doorway until he looks up, eyes widening to almost comical disks. He hasn’t changed at all.

“Kun!” Taeil exclaims, standing. “You’re—you’re here!”

The words were meant to come easy, to be simple and biting, but Kun finds his throat dries up at just the wrong moment. All that comes out is a small, hollow rasp.

“Why did you do it?” Kun asks softly, throat sore. 

“Do what?” Taeil asks, raising an eyebrow. He takes a step back. “What are you talking about?”

“I only told one person about my mom’s house,” Kun whispers. “I told you.”

Taeil has the nerve to laugh, dry and confused, eyes sliding away. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

Kun steps through the doorway and he sees something small and scared flash in Taeil’s gaze. “I never thought that you, of all people, would want me dead.”

Motives are hard, actions are easy. Taeil didn’t show up to his office the day he was attacked. He knew about Kun’s family home in the countryside, how it was under his mother’s name. He knew a lot of things that Kun never bothered to hide.

“I didn’t,” Taeil drawls. “I just wanted you out of the way.”

The walls inhale, holding everything in suspension.

“For the company,” Kun says. “You want the company.”

Taeil is quiet, and his guilt rings true as a bell in the silence. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Kun almost laughs. “Killing me would technically hurt me, Taeil. Try again.”

This isn’t a movie. It isn’t a comic book. There’s no stunning climax where the hero and the villain face off, fists flying, masks coming undone. There are no explosions, no colorful speech bubbles to hang in the air like ornaments, _bang, pow, pop_.

_The world despises those with power. There is no one in this world that won’t eventually hurt you._

“You could have just asked me,” Kun says, exhaling until the lack of air makes his chest feel like a crumpled paper bag. “You could have just asked. I would’ve given you anything you wanted.”

Taeil is silent, lips chapped where they press together in a thin, solemn line. Kun steps to the side, the doorway a gaping maw beside him.

“Retract the bounty,” Kun says quietly. “Leave and never come back.”

Taeil’s eyes narrow to slits. “I’ll get what I want in the end. In the end, everything you have will be mine.”

Greed, envy. They are an emerald knife that cuts, a steel ladder with broken rungs, an open window with no room behind it. Kun reaches into his jacket and pulls out Ten’s gun, blocky and foreign in his palm. He points it at Taeil, stomach churning.

“I will not ask again,” Kun hisses. Then, an afterthought: “I trusted you.”

Taeil lets out a breathless, nervous laugh. “You can’t use that. You don’t have the heart.”

Kun pulls the hammer of the gun back just as he’s seen Ten do so many times before, the movement only smooth because of the times he had spent practicing it with Ten unconscious beside him. Asleep, lips moving in the shape of his name, half delirious. Damaged.

Kun stares at Taeil, finger sliding over the trigger. “Don’t I?”

Anger does not sharpen him, has the opposite effect. It dulls him the same way a stone can dull the edge of a knife, turns him into shavings of himself. Taeil stands and grabs his laptop off the desk, tucking it under his arm. He walks to the doorway, eyes flickering to the barrel of Kuns gun.

His mouth quirks up into a small, vicious smile. “Your father trusted me, too.”

The barrel of the gun wavers, dips. “What?” Kun echoes numbly. “What?”

Taeil’s laptop hits him with all the force of a falling brick, the impact snapping his head to the side. His ears ring like bells and the gun falls to the ground like a lead weight. For a brief moment, the room spins.

There’s blood on the case of Taeil’s laptop. It streaks across the gray metal like paint.

Taeil bends down and picks up the gun. “The company laptops are incredibly sturdy,” he says, pressing it to Kun’s forehead. “Goodbye, Qian.”

Kun smiles, vision blurring. He sways and braces his arm on the wall, leaning, nausea crawling up his throat like an unwelcome guest. “Eat dirt.”

Taeil pulls the trigger. 

_Click._

He pulls the trigger again. _Click._

_Click. Click. Click._

Taeil throws the gun to the ground, disgusted. The odds are once again even. Checkmate. 

“It’s just as you said,” Kun says, head throbbing. “I don’t have the heart.”

Taeil’s lip curls and he looks to the door, the windows. He’s figuring the odds, calculating. Kun knows he can’t kill him, not here and not now. 

Taeil grabs the side of his head and slams it against the wall, the second impact enough to make the earth fall away from his feet like it never existed. He hits the ground like a stone and watches Taeil’s feet vanish through the doorway.

Silence. He wishes, for a long and tired moment, that someone else would walk through the door. 

…

_—the CEO of Vision Tech has reappeared after almost two weeks of absence, found in his company building. Simultaneous to his arrival is the suspicious disappearance of employee Moon Taeil, who was believed to be in conflict with Qian that morning. Authorities intend to question Moon but so far there is no evidence—_

“Wake up.”

A familiar voice. With it Kun recalls a harsh and uncomfortable life, one constricted to the nighttime hours and the pale lighting of a motel room. The soft longing of a heart that hates fear but knows it so, so well.

“Kun,” the voice says again. “Wake up.”

_I was just a man._

Kun cracks one eye open, wincing at the light that fills the hospital room. The man sitting next to him has blond hair and wears all black, mouth twisted into a grin he recognizes easily.

“Ten,” Kun rasps, throat drier than he imagined it would be. The news report drones on in the background, the apathetic blond anchorwoman dressed head to toe in corporate white. “You’re here.”

There isn’t much to say, but the fact that Ten is here says enough. A great risk, to sit by his side. To come out of hiding, to force himself into the light. They say nothing, but Ten reaches over and adjusts his pillow behind his head, moving stiffly, moving slowly, always moving.

“You’re an idiot,” Ten says quietly. “Far too lucky for your own good.”

“Is your side okay?” Kun whispers, extending a hand. Ten hesitates for a long time before sliding their palms together. 

“I'll be fine,” he says. His knuckles are rough, covered with scabs and half healing scrapes. “So will you.”

Kun looks at the television, eyes unfocusing. “He’s still out there,” he says quietly. “I’m not safe.”

Ten smiles. “He won’t bother you again. I promise.”

“How can you be sure?” 

Ten’s eyes are dark and glittering. Half the scrapes on his hands are fresh. “How much do you trust me?”

 _Enough to follow,_ Kun thinks. _Wholeheartedly._

He doesn’t say it, though. He lifts Ten’s scraped hand to his mouth and kisses it once, softly. 

“I need to hire a new CFO,” Kun says absently, rubbing his thumb against Ten’s palm. Calloused. Comforting. “One that won't try to kill me.”

Ten stretches, wincing a little, “Can’t help you there. Sorry.”

“What about you?” Kun asks.

“Nothing at the moment. There isn't much work for a mercenary who can't finish the job.” Ten tilts his head, giving Kun a deeply appraising look. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that. You might not always like the answer.”

Kun feels his throat go dry. “I’ve been thinking about hiring a bodyguard,” he says nonchalantly, looking out the hospital window. “Someone with experience, obviously. Do you know where I might find someone like that?”

Ten grins at him. “I might. Are there any other criteria? I want to be as helpful as possible.”

Kun crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly cold. “Someone indiscreet. I wouldn't want one of those scary huge guys following me around everywhere. A man that's maybe…” Kun gives Ten a solid once-over. “5’7? I think that would be ideal.”

Ten’s eyes twinkle. “Anything else?” He asks, watching Kun sit up. He holds out a hand to steady him, face so close he can see the shadow of his lashes against his cheek. “You seem to be a very demanding employer.”

“I am.”

A beat of silence. Ten reaches out to rest a hand on Kun’s cheek, his fingers warm. Kun leans into the touch, relishing the sight of Ten whole and happy. For once they are not running, for once they don't have to be afraid. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow. Wherever you need me, I’ll be there.”

Kun leans forward and kisses him, hears Ten make a small, startled gasp. He holds Kun’s wrists as if all the bones are glass.

“Excellent,” Kun breathes, pulling away slightly. “You’re hired.”

“Great,” Ten says, pulling him back in.

He rests his hand on Ten’s waist and feels a thick ridge of bandages beneath his shirt. Guilt lodges in his heart like a small stone.

“I never wanted you to suffer for me.”

“I never suffered,” Ten says, kissing his cheek, his forehead. His blond hair falls over his eyes. “None of the time spent with you was suffering. It was my choice.”

Kun knows that it is a lie, but pulls him closer anyway. In that moment they are one heart in two bodies, a man with the sky in his eyes and a man that lives in the shadows.

 _The world despises those with power,_ Kun thinks as Ten wraps his arms around his waist, unbelievably gentle. He rests his head on Ten’s shoulder. _There is no one in this world that won’t eventually hurt you._

 _Not true,_ Kun wants to say softly, sighing. _Not true at all._

**Author's Note:**

> [man on the run](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4aP6ozbiR0FcG3z0NEJ6qr?si=w2vpuqY1SaeMGtP1Hb_B7A)


End file.
